


Grief

by AnnaofAza



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Based off on Season 10 Spoilers, Demon Dean Winchester, Five Stages of Grief, Friendship, Hannah POV, Internal Conflicts, M/M, Post-Episode: s09e23 Do You Believe In Miracles?, Season/Series 10, struggling with feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 18:28:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2035503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When is a monster not a monster? Oh, when you love it.</p><p>Hannah observes Castiel struggle with his fading Grace, his best friend being newly turned into a both an abomination and stranger, and his conflict between Heaven and Dean Winchester. But she won't let him suffer alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Denial

**Author's Note:**

> In which Castiel doesn't have to bear his burdens all alone and has a friend to help.

The tablet smashed on the floor as easily as glass.  
  
Hannah felt its power bursting and scattering in all directions, her Grace cowering and shivering beneath her skin as the energy washed over everyone in the room. Castiel had done it.  
  
But all too soon, she sensed Metatron's presence in the office and froze in place before reaching for her blade. Metatron was dangerous—she could see it now—and if they were going to fight, Castiel might need help.  
  
What stopped her was one angel, bespectacled with a blue, button-down shirt, rising from his seat and striding purposefully towards the closed room.  
  
"How do we know it's not some ploy between them?" he demanded. Hannah remembered him, Israfil, the one who held Dean Winchester in the command center for Castiel to punish and also the first one out the door.  
  
Castiel had explained the plan to her carefully, and Hannah had thought it clever. But she had also felt worry, placing her trust in someone who can turn the tide of such an easily-tipped situation—but with Gadreel's sacrifice and Castiel's own sincerity, how could she doubt him? In all the times she had been with him, Castiel had been steadfast and empathetic to getting everyone back home safely. She had faith in him.

"Castiel is not the one who means us harm. Listen!" Hannah ordered, her Grace fluttering anxiously. She had been Castiel's second-in-command, but felt that she had merely followed Castiel's instructions and carried them out. There was little occasion to prevent dissent—except in the case of Dean Winchester—and many of these angels were Metatron's. What if they didn't listen?  
  
But everyone inside the small room was silent and still, just as Metatron coldly said, _"He's dead, too."_  
  
Hannah's Grace hissed, like water on a hot stove-top, as the sound of chains rattled, and she gasped as something struck her at the very core of her Grace.  
  
Everyone else seemed to feel it, too. This was no simple sadness. This was agony, pure grief spun raw, and Castiel was stunned by the finality.  
  
 _Dean Winchester is dead._  
  
Castiel's voice was surprisingly calm as he continued to edge Metatron into a confession, but Hannah's Grace was still trembling from the weight of the aftershocks. She heard the sharp, indrawn breaths and felt waves of anger and betrayal when Metatron revealed his true colors. Castiel was strong, she thought, but she could feel him breaking, forcing himself to remain focused and push down his horror and grief.  
  
"—You never knew how to tell a good story," Metatron taunted.  
  
Hannah looked over at the angels now. They were enraged, Grace thrumming with the need to get justice and punish the wrongdoer. Good. This time, it was Hannah who strode over to the door as Castiel's voice snarled, "But _you_ did."  
  
They surged in all at once. Hannah saw that Castiel was sitting numbly in a leather chair, his eyes wet.   
  
"Take him," she commanded, and two angels obeyed, gripping Metatron tightly enough to make him briefly wince. Hannah put her own blade as a warning against Metatron's neck. Castiel twisted and wrenched the manacles off his wrists with little effort, then picked up the short sword that had fallen onto the carpet, grip steady and sure. The blade was covered in fresh blood, almost up to the hilt.  
  
Hannah knew whose blood it was.  
  
Metatron flinched, fear flooding into his eyes and mouth opening as if to plead for mercy, as Castiel raised the blade. Castiel stretched to his full height, with the glower he gives Metatron _terrifying._ This is no longer Commander Castiel, rational and reassuring; _this_ is the angel who swallowed Purgatory's souls and became a ruthless god that made Metatron's efforts seem like child's play. This is the angel who was feared and hunted down by Heaven, the whispered new Lucifer, the one who took out his kin for a seemingly mad cause. This is the angel who banished Zachariah and briefly stunned the Archangel Michael and slaughtered many of the angels in Heaven without blinking.  _Castiel_ is lightning in a bottle, trembling with overwhelming energy, and, for the first time since she met him, Hannah felt a swoop of chilled fear. 

Hannah was sure that Castiel would stab Metatron immediately with untamed and unrestrained fury, but he paused. Conflicting emotions ran through his face, even as grief shone brightly in depths of gray-blue. 

He finally lowered the blade, and turned away before Metatron slumped over in relief.  
  
"Take him to Heaven's dungeons," Castiel commanded, with a weary edge in his voice, jerking his head briefly towards the doorway. He watched as Metatron was dragged away, but his gaze was unfocused. His fingers trembled on the silver hilt of the angel blade, and his eyes went to the blood, now just starting to dry. Castiel took another glance at it again, raising it to eye level, then something inside of him seemed to shattered.  
  
Wordlessly, he slipped it into the inside of his coat and followed the angels down the hallway. Hannah fell in step beside him, the room still murmuring about what had transpired. Castiel was dragging his feet, as if he was the one being locked away. His gaze was fixed ahead, but Hannah thought that he did not truly see.  
  
She lowered her voice. "Are you all right, Castiel?"  
  
He didn't reply. They both watched as Metatron was tossed unceremoniously into the cell and then looked mournfully at the bars sealed up around him.  
  
She spoke up. "You're doing the right thing—letting him live. It's what a leader would do."  
  
"I'm no leader, Hannah. I never was. I just want to be an angel." His voice was so quiet. She had never seen Castiel like this.  
  
"And your Grace?" She asked, concerned. "What will you do about that? You will die if you don't replenish it."  
  
He stared off into space, showing no hope at all. Instead, he turned and began his way back. Hannah caught up to him, trying to figure out what to say next.  
  
"I'm sorry about...him."  
  
Truthfully, Hannah had no real affection for any of the Winchesters. Like Flagstaff, she believed Dean Winchester was arrogant and self-righteous and believed problems could be solved with bloodshed. Hannah was tired of her brothers and sisters being slaughtered—there were so _many_ lives lost already—and simply wanted peace. She could still remember the days before demons and the fall of Lucifer, where there was no fighting and just warm contentment. Now, Hannah couldn't remember a time when she dared to put down her blade.  
  
But Castiel, when informed of their arrival, had called for a brief meeting and informed them of the two brothers. Hannah had noticed, even then, that his voice seemed... _gentler_ while discussing Dean, the older brother, the Michael Sword, Alastair's past student, and the Righteous Man. He was so many things, but Castiel seemed to know Dean, the part that was untouched by rumors and titles.  
  
"Dean can come across as very harsh and difficult," Castiel had said. "But he has so many burdens that are placed on his shoulders and trouble him deeply. I...trust him completely, and I consider him a good friend. Please...be kind to him."  
  
Hannah had later left the command center with doubt twisting inside of her, ugly and thrumming with bitterness. Castiel had promised no more lives would be lost, and he allowed that...that _human_ to break their rules and _kill_ someone under their roof _and_ their sanctuary. She had seen the way Castiel had looked when he took the blade from her, clear hesitance wavering underneath a mask of stoicism, and even then, she had known he would never harm Dean Winchester.  
  
Castiel spoke, interrupting her thoughts: "Thank you, Hannah, but Metatron lies. Dean isn't dead."  
  
"Castiel," Hannah paused, making her voice gentler. They both had stopped right in the middle of the corridor. "You saw the blade."  
  
"No." He shook his head. "Even if Metatron killed him, he'll come back. He always does."  
  
Hannah was well aware of Dean's—and Sam's—reputation, but she felt that it was impossible this time. Dean had been resurrected by a demon deal, then by one of the Archangels, and well...now, he'd been stabbed by Metatron, and Castiel's Grace was draining away by the moment. The brother might make another deal, but...  
  
"Castiel, I'm sorry. But he may find peace in Heaven, now that we can reopen it again."  
  
He shook his head once more. "He won't be in Heaven."  
  
 _What? Surely he wouldn't go to Hell._ "Why wouldn't he be?"  
  
"Didn't you sense it, Hannah? He's branded with the Mark of Cain."  
  
Hannah now felt fear, old and ancient, something that she had never thought she had to be frightened of until now. Every angel knew what became of Cain, and the likes of that complete power and violence in Dean Winchester? "He'll be—"  
  
"No, he _won't_." Castiel suddenly snapped, making her briefly flinch. "Hannah, his soul is brighter than any other. He won't be corrupted."  
  
Hannah only nodded and began to follow Castiel back to the office, but she still recalled white light slowly darkening and blackness shriveling its way in, and wondered how Castiel could not see.


	2. Anger

No one wanted to be the one to tell Castiel.

No one had wanted to believe it, either.

Hannah thought, privately, that the delay was making everything worse. She hadn’t seen it with her own eyes, but she had heard whispers of repeated retellings. Somehow, Sam Winchester had sneaked into Heaven while Castiel had been down on Earth and had _conversed_ with Metatron in the short time span allowed when he had banished the angels standing guard over the prison.

No one knew what they talked about—Metatron refused to talk, but his eyes had glittered mischievously, almost in triumph—and Sam Winchester had been captured by the two angels that pinned him down when he had tried to escape. Flagstaff had suggested that they’d try to question him instead, but Hannah had stepped in. They didn’t truly know how to deal with the likes of him— _the boy with the demon blood, the_ _Boy King, Lucifer’s vessel, the one who had thrown him back into the Cage—_ and something inside of him was _wrong._

The angels had talked about Dean’s shining soul, but no one had ventured to discuss Sam’s. His had taint— _demon taint_ —but now, it had cracks weaving in and out. Somehow, despite those, it _glowed_. Not as blindingly obvious as _Dean’s_ , yet it was like trying to compare the moon to the sun. Dean’s was a constant ballad of flowery praise, but Sam’s was a mother’s humming in the quiet night, unheard by many but loved by enough.

Now...now, there was distinctly something _off_. What had he _done?_

Hannah could tell that Sam’s judgment was in Castiel’s hands now— _look how well that turned out last time, and Castiel’s time is fading,_ something whispered in her ear—and waited, like a guilty child hiding under the kitchen sink for his father to come home.

Castiel had come back to Heaven surprisingly quickly, albeit with more difficulty and weariness that shadowed his Grace, and hadn’t said a word to anyone. He had went into the room Sam was in, placed under heavy guard second to Metatron’s, and disappeared for many Earth hours.

He was now a simmering blaze of pure fury. Sam was now returned to Earth, and Castiel had stayed. His Grace was so caustic and off-putting that many angels now had taken to lengthen the distance between themselves and him. Hannah had no such luxury—she was his constant companion—and felt waves of bubbling tension and rising doubt and seething anger roll off him. It was unpleasant, to say the least, but she tried to work with Castiel the best she could—talking about different ways to rebuild Heaven, discussing the stragglers on Earth, informing him on tidbits of both information and idle gossip—but to no avail. 

She shouldn’t have been surprised when Castiel suddenly stormed down the halls to reach Metatron’s cell, angels scattering to either watch curiously or simply take cover. The increased amount of guards did nothing to deter him.

“Castiel, wait—“ she tried, but he simply brushed her to the side with a thought, and stood in front of the cell with his eyes glowering with untapped and unreleased rage.

“Hello, Castiel,” Metatron sneered, in spite of his imprisoned state, but Castiel _snarled_ and clenched the bars around his fingers.

“Did you _write_ this? Did you _plan_ this?”

Metatron laughed. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Tell me _everything_!” Castiel exploded, and everyone in the room flinched. “You told Sam Winchester that you had something to bargain with, something that _you_ only knew. I should have expected this from _you_ , Metatron!”

Hannah tried again to pull him away, but Castiel simply jerked away.

“ _You know_ ,” he hissed. “You _know_.”

Metatron was still smiling, yet he was stepping back, putting more distance between himself and Castiel, even though all knew Castiel could most likely tear down the barrier.

“I do.” Hannah watched as Castiel’s ire rose with every word that came out of Metatron’s mouth. “I know how to solve everything, Castiel—your Grace, your struggle, your _Dean_. But I won’t. I’m going to watch my work play out—“ Now he was leaning up against the bars, face almost touching Castiel’s. “And it will be the _greatest_ story ever told.”

He was blasted backwards into the wall, the stone cracking above gasps, and Castiel’s hand was lit, although weakly, with Grace. This was to battle, to _kill_ , and Hannah tensed.

“You and your stories! This isn’t some _story_ that you’re making up with your broken typewriter. It’s not real!” Castiel raged. His eyes flashed blue. “Do you know what’s _real_? People are real. Families. Friends. _Humans_.” He paused, as if to catch his breath, and continued, “You sit there, above the clouds, and just _watch_ them like ants on a log.”

Metatron only smirked back.

“Now you’re stooping to plagiarism, huh? Stealing notes from Dean?”

“ _You son of a bitch_.” Castiel was now trembling, the light nearly blinding them all, and Hannah had to close her eyes. “After all of this is done, I will—“

“Kill me?” Metatron mocked. “Go ahead. You’ll never get your answers, and I’m the only one who has them.” And he threw back his head and _howled_ with pure glee.

* * *

 

 “Castiel. You _can’t_ believe him.”

“I’m well aware of the current situation,” he snapped, sitting stubbornly at the old desk, a claimed space for his needs.

“Of course you are,” Hannah retorted. “It’s a difficult one, but you _know_ Metatron. It’s a trick.” She tried a different tactic: distraction. “Your Grace. How was your search? Did you—“

“I don’t _care_ , Hannah.” He interrupted, letting the chair rock backwards and fall to the floor with a sharp _crack._ It actually splintered on impact, and he was standing, fingers gripping the edge of the desk. “I don’t care.”

“But _why_?” Hannah snapped back, infuriated, shouting at his rigid back. “Do you think this is _noble_? Are you officially becoming a Winchester? You’re going to _die_ , Castiel.”

She thought she had had him there, could snap him out of it, but Castiel only moved backwards and crossed his arms tightly across his chest.

“As said before,” he said. “I’m well aware of the situation.”

 _“Why?”_ she demanded. She knew she was provoking him, poking him with a stick, to use a human expression. But she did not know how else to deal with this situation.

“I am _dying_ , Hannah!” he growled. “I _know_ I am.” Suddenly, all the fight seemed to bleed out of him with that statement, and Castiel slumped over as if he might collapse any moment, palms flat against the desk’s surface. “I’m resigned, Hannah; I know once my Grace burns out, I do, too. But I can— _this_ —I know how to save him.”

 _Dean Winchester._ It always came back to him, in the end, didn’t it?

“Why do you even _care_ so much?” Castiel had rebelled; Castiel had broken ranks; Castiel had destroyed the world and died _twice_ , but could he _honestly—_

“It’s not _fair!”_ he thundered, turning to finally face her directly, but Hannah didn’t allow herself to be cowed, not this time. She stared back, boldly, and listened. “I know I’m not going to last, but I can use this, use this last gift to try to _cure_ him. I can purge the Mark if I can. I can _save_ him.”

Hannah lost what little temper and patience she had:

_“What if it doesn’t work?”_

These words were dangerous, and Castiel could have smote her standing, but he didn’t. He simply gave himself over to the exhaustion, shaking his head, then lowering it in defeat.

“Then I would have failed at _everything_.”

He was leaning against his desk now, staring morosely at the overturned chair, and Hannah dared to put a hand on his shoulder. This time, he relented, and most of his weight leaned on hers. His rage was cooling, subsiding, and all she could glimpse of him was surrender.

“Castiel,” she said truthfully. “You haven’t failed. You defeated Metatron. You brought us home. You promised, and you succeeded.”

“I tried to lead,” he countered. “And I failed.”

“Everyone is allowed to fail, Castiel. But you didn’t. And my best guess is that you _won’t_.”

He sighed, putting his head in his heads temporarily, and closed his eyes.

“I can,” he almost whispered. “I _can_. But I won’t give up on him. You’re right, and I won’t.”  

Castiel shook his head. “I don’t believe in God anymore,” he admitted, and Hannah should have felt surprised, but didn’t. “I don’t even know if I even can. I’ve been around for such a long time, and I have seen false gods that feasted on corruption and deceit; I’ve seen many powerful gods, gods of the old that both tempered and raised the elements; I’ve even been a god, myself. But there’s nothing left to believe in, except for one thing. Him.” He looked at her steadily, now with renewed. “I have faith in him, Hannah. And I think he has faith in me, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next stage: bargaining. Any guesses as to what will happen next?


	3. Bargaining

Hannah had heard of Bela Talbot.  
  
Who hadn't?  
  
Everyone knew that Bela Talbot was the first seal, and everyone knew she was lost. In Hell, the torture twisted souls into something dangerously corrupted and irredeemable. She had heard that even the Righteous Man’s soul—despite its light, despite that it was a beacon even in the darkest parts of Perdition—had been close to transforming into a beast that could not be tamed. They said Castiel, even down in the depths of Hell, took the shivering soul and began weaving the broken parts back together with his own Grace. They had spoken about it with open reverence, such compassion and bravery that was the seraph Castiel, but now—Hannah knew if the tale was repeated, there would be nothing but disdain and disgust.  
  
“We should have known Castiel would be dragged down into the mud.” Flagstaff was with a few others, crowded in a hissing cluster. Her lip had been curled back from her bottom teeth in clear disdain. “He excused the violent Winchester brother time and time again. You remember when Hannah rightfully demanded justice, and Castiel refused to lay a hand on him, even when it was clear that Righteous Man had slain one of our own.”  
  
Hannah tried to speak of this to Castiel, but he wouldn’t listen. Newspaper articles and maps were on every surface of his claimed office area, red circles around each city Dean Winchester had visited. Most of the time, though, he was on Earth with the younger Winchester, who was trying to track down his wayward brother. Despite his dwindling Grace, he was more alive than he had been in a long time. And yet, he was also more subdued than ever, hope clutched so tightly to his breast, like guarding the last flicker of candlelight from a storm by cupping hands over the flame. He feared its detection because it was all he had left.   
  
He no longer believed in their Father, but Castiel had latched onto another purpose to guide him, another hope bigger than himself: to save Dean Winchester.  
  
He believed the route to that was through Bela Talbot. She called herself the Queen of the Crossroads. Some even called her the next ruler of Hell. And Castiel was bargaining with her.  
  
Of course it had to be this way. Hannah knew Castiel would never bargain with Metatron. There were rumors of a continuing partnership with the King of Hell, Crowley, but those had stagnated in the recent years.  
  
 _But if it's Dean,_ some had already began whispering. _He'll do it..._  
  
Hannah hated to think of that—she knew how strong Castiel was—but there was a reason why Castiel had severed himself from the Host, and it was not because his Grace was fading.  
  
The angels were wary of him. Despite their initial awe and relief that Metatron could not harm them anymore, it was obvious that Castiel was not the same anymore. Castiel's mission to return them to Heaven was over, and in its place was simply going through the motions.  
  
Because of that, even before that, they did not see Castiel as an angel.  
  
Israfil came to her on the evening of Castiel's mission, while Hannah was trying to negotiate with the others. Castiel had suggested that the Heavens not be separated, but connected, so the souls could visit each other freely. Many were dubious about his suggestion—it was after all, Castiel's—and some were even furious. There were many keepers of the Heavens, and they were doubtful of this suggestion. There would be chaos. Should the current situation be enough?  
  
Some said, _No, it wouldn't be enough._ For the some, Earth had been too much. The short months had been like a jolt of cold water, and some had either shivered and soldiered on or had simply let it longer too close to the skin.  
  
Still, no one at the present was inclined to side explicitly with Castiel.  
  
“You are with him the most of us, Hannah,” Israfil said. “What does he say?"  
  
“Castiel has led us home,” Hannah replied. It had not been a real answer, and Israfil had known it.   
  
The angels gathered around them were silent. She had forgotten that they were there. It had been unwise to have had that conversation in the open, but Hannah felt like a clock, slowly running down, but automatically making the same gears turn and the same alarm chime. Castiel was not here, and Heaven was still spinning around on its axis to find a true north.  
  
 _I'm the second-in-command,_ she thought, but it seemed that responsibilities of a leader were steadily creeping up on her.

* * *

"I can't keep protecting you forever, Castiel," she warned him when he returned, looking pensive. He had not said a single word to her about what he had done, so Hannah had tried to move him, get him to fill up the empty silence. "They'll take matters into their own hands. They'll rebel."  
  
When that didn't get him to react, except with a slight slumping of the shoulders, she used the best weapon in the arsenal.  
  
"They'll kill Dean," she said, more sharply than intended.  
  
Castiel finally looked at her. The anger that burned bright had smothered in steadily-glowering coals. The grief was still there, but it was no longer young and fresh. It was now fixed into something hardened, rigid with thought, and with a tiny glimmer of fear. What did Bela Talbot say to him?  
  
The story came out in bits and pieces. He had been treated like a fool, Castiel said, but ruefully, as if he was starting to believe it himself.  
  
"I denied the carnages, the atrocities. I made myself believe that it wasn't him." Castiel shook his head. "I'm afraid, Hannah. I cannot tell myself that it is not wrong of me to believe in him, but I'm afraid that...my feelings, biased and unrealistic...as if I'm excusing him."  
  
Hannah was silent.  
  
"I spoke with Sam, before I came here, and I don't want to be him. I don't want to have a heart so large and heavy that it drags me down, until I couldn’t pick myself off the ground."  
  
He looked at her, helplessly.  
  
"What should I do, Hannah?" Castiel asked.  
  
There were stories of fallen angels, always treated with fear. How could an angel love something more than their Father?  
  
Being on Earth...that had been something so immeasurably raw. Never let it be said angels couldn’t feel—they had to have feelings to Fall in the first place—but the problem was that angels felt too much. They had been human, that was true, but to have such a strong myriad of emotions battling for space in such a small body—how could humans endure all of that?  
  
Hannah suspected that angels were made so coldly, like ice statues, because when angels felt too intensely, they fell.  
  
"Castiel—" she began to say, but someone appeared in the doorway. It was an angel, with a red button-down shirt, the third-in-command. Castiel stood up, alarmed, and froze at the words from his mouth.  
  
"Commander," Raziel said, a habit from the brief time spent at the base. "It's Dean Winchester."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read "The Hollow," it was something I had in mind for this chapter. Think of it as a companion piece from Cas' point of view!


	4. Depression

Hannah found Castiel in a small, squalid motel room in the middle of Phoenix, Arizona. He was lying on his back in the bed, covers kicked carelessly on the filthy floor, with the air conditioning turned on high. His dark hair softly swayed in the artificial breeze, and his eyes were closed.

“What happened?” she demanded, taking in her friend’s sallow face, his labored breath, and his eyes—dead and defeated. “Did he hurt you? Are you all right?”

Castiel did not speak.

“Castiel…” Hannah fought the urge to shake him by the shoulders. From the looks of him, Castiel might very likely break apart, like scorched firewood. “Are you injured?”

Castiel didn’t move, and after a long moment passed with a slow shake of his head, Hannah breathed a sigh of relief.

She reached out, hand on his shoulder, then gasped. The energy inside of him was splintered, fractures rubbing within his chest. It was small, as weak as a melted-down candle’s flame, sputtering and flickering.

“Your Grace…” Hannah could barely speak. “What happened to it? It’s far weaker than before.”

When Castiel spoke, his voice was ragged, as if his throat had been scraped raw with the blunt edge of a knife. “I—“ Castiel then paused suddenly, as if it was physically draining for him in the effort to push out words. Hannah waited, with a tightening twist in her stomach, for the next words, but they never came.

Castiel reached out, fingertips extended in her direction, and Hannah caught them in her grasp. She folded them gently within her palms and squeezed, ever aware of his weakened state. Something ticked in her mind, a flash of a sneer, then a quick burst of pain that left its mark behind like a burnt-out firework. Hannah winced, but did not pull away, fingers tingling.

“Castiel,” Hannah began, mind working. “If you share your memories—“

He nodded, and Hannah closed her eyes, cupping his face with both hands, and opened her mind. Castiel’s emotions were so scraped, so raw, that Hannah gasped, nearly breaking the connection, but she did her best to focus.

The first image that came to mind was of a large metal door. Hannah, through Castiel’s senses, could sense the protective wards, infused with the implanted iron remnants. Castiel’s gaze scanned the area, rural with little trees, then focusing on a vehicle parked in the road. Hannah recognized it as the car the Winchesters frequently drove around in, but it didn’t quite resemble what she remembered. It was filthy, covered in dust and scratches, with one of the windows scratched.

Something like a wince grazed in Castiel’s chest, with a slight surge of dismay.

 _This was his home_ , Castiel thought, and Hannah was suddenly immersed in a bombardment of sights and sounds, of something clattering in the radiator, of Dean stretching back on the roof of his car, of Sam pointing at the stars above, of the brother shoving each other playfully in the front seat, of Dean looking at Hannah—no, looking at Castiel—in the front seat with rain dribbling down the windows. It went on like this, until something shifted.

Castiel had settled on a particular memory. There was that same persistent rattling, as Dean, a bit younger and with an amulet dangling from his neck, spun the wheel with an amused whoop. Sam squawked in annoyance as his bundle of papers slipped onto the floor, and Dean laughed at the disgruntled look on his face.

Hannah, slightly annoyed by Dean’s carelessness, watched as the elder Winchester craned back his head to look in the back seat. Hannah inwardly stiffened, but felt her body—Castiel’s body—lean forward and nod in his direction.

“Cas!” Dean exclaimed, with a pleased glint in his eye. It made his eyes look greener. “Glad you could join us, man! But how did you find us?”

“Sam texted me. He feared you would die before the Apocalypse was underway, and I was worried that—“

“Sam’s just being a worrywart,” Dean laughed, rolling his eyes. “I just startled Sammy with a little fishtail—“

“Seriously, Dean!” his brother protested. “This may seem like an open road, but what if someone just came down the opposite end over there—“

“I know my Baby. She wouldn’t let us crash.” Dean replied, patting the dashboard with a fond smile.

Sam raised his eyes skeptically. “It’s happened before,” he noted.

Dean’s smile tilted, the corners of his mouth slowly dragging down. “Way to take the wind out of my sails, Sammy.” He was then silent, seeming lost in what looked like a sad memory, and Hannah felt a strong wave of sympathy from Castiel.

“Where are we going, Dean?”

Distracted by the question, Dean replied, “Just going to gank some ghosts, but we might pull over for some burgers. You’re coming with us, right?”

“Of course.” It was a simple reply, but filled with so much conviction that Hannah was surprised neither of the brothers caught it.

Hannah was torn out of the memory by another presence. She tried to reach for her angel blade, but realized that she was, for one, still in Castiel’s body, and also that this had already happened in the past. It was Raziel, talking to Castiel, gesturing wildly with his hands, but Castiel was paying him no heed.

“…This is something I need to do myself, Raziel—“

“But Castiel,” Raziel protested. “Dean Winchester is—“

“Dangerous? I know,” Castiel replied, tone a bit hardened. “I can handle this, Raziel. I have to—“ _Have to see him. Have to know that he’s okay. Have to know that he’s in there, somewhere._

Raziel gave him a long look, before saying, “If you need assistance, just pray to me or Hannah. We’re on your side, Castiel.”

With a flutter of wings, Raziel was gone, and Castiel reached out with a fist and knocked on the door.

Sam was the one to answer it, arm wrapped in a blue sling, and jerking his head towards the inside, he said, “I better not leave him alone for too long. He’s already tried to escape.”

Castiel closed the door behind him and followed the younger Winchester down the hall, then down a dark flight of stairs. They were both silent, and Hannah could sense an air of tension between them.

“…I have to get the syringes. Don’t take your eyes off of him, and remember, Cas, he’s not—“ Sam’s features hardened. “He’s not the same. He’s…” He exhaled, loudly, through his mouth, staring up at the ceiling. “He can hurt you.”

“Sam, are you—“

“I’m fine. But we just had—a spat.” It did not look as if that word suited what had happened between them, but Sam’s tone made it explicitly clear that he didn’t want to delve into further discussion. “Just—just watch him, okay? I’ll be back in a second.”

Castiel’s first glimpse of Dean aroused alarm and concern and denial: Dean was strapped to a chair, bound with cuffs meant to weaken him, in the middle of a large Devil’s Trap. Dean looked up, and despite the dimply-lit atmosphere, Castiel could clearly see the flash of black beneath his eyelids.

“Sammy, you brought more guests to the party!” he mocked. “I’m flattered, I really am. This is going to be so much _fun._ ”

Dean smiled. It looked wrong on his face, as if there was an intention that lay beneath, not the simple expression of joy Hannah had witnessed in Castiel’s memory.

Sam nodded to Castiel shortly, ignoring Dean, and quickly walked out, shutting the door behind him.

“Cas.” Dean immediately said. “Sammy couldn’t do this alone, couldn’t he? Coward. I just didn’t expect _you_ would come.”

“Sam is a good and brave man.” Castiel replied, tone defensive. “And I—“ _I always come when you call. I am your friend_. It had been so long since he had said those words, trembling with emotion, but now, now, that seemed so, so far away. Too much had happened between them, it seemed, to repair the damage caused by distance. Hannah tried her best to tamp down the next surge of pain as Castiel searched his mind for words. “I wanted to see you.” Which was true.

“Well,” Dean said, something lingering just at the edge of his tongue, like winding up for a shot. “Pretty unexpected, seeing you like this. Batteries worn down, huh?”

“Not completely.”

“And are you doing anything about it?”

“I can’t.” Castiel’s emotions were a hurricane, spinning wildly out of his reach, and Hannah was in the eye of the storm. She had touched memories of other angels, to be sure, but Castiel’s were so bright, so wild that Hannah felt nearly frightened. They were chaotic in every sense of the world, not at all muted or protected, like a…

Dean stepping forward now, shaking his head. “Maybe it’s best to put you out of your misery, then.”

“If you lay a hand on me, the angels will come to my aid.” _Two, perhaps._

Dean smiled a slow, slow smile. “Then call ‘em down there.”

“You can’t take down the whole legion of Heaven.”

“You weren’t too popular when I last saw you. And even if things have improved,” Dean drawled, tapping his fingers against the arms of the chair. “I’ve learned enough tricks.”

“You mean with the Blade?”

“More than the Blade, Cas. I’m a Knight of Hell. Remember when Sam was soulless? Of course you do, it was your fault—but it made him better, in a way. More willing to get the job done. Just…not the right one.”

“What are you talking about?” Castiel knew he shouldn’t reply, shouldn’t encourage this—whatever this was—but he couldn’t seem to stop. Every word in Dean’s voice was coated in poison, but there was a song in Castiel’s Grace, a ring of _alive, alive, alive._

“My brother was killing innocents. The wrong people.” Dean leaned forward. “But I’m doing something good. I’m still the same person: saving people, hunting things.” Hannah could feel Castiel’s mouth open to respond, but Dean’s next words stopped him. “Just stay with me, Cas,” Dean said, eyes bright and intense. Hannah caught a hint of rising fervor as Dean continued, “Please. We can get justice. We can take out Metatron, get your Grace back, and help me.”

Hannah felt a shiver of hope run though Castiel. “Cure you?”

Dean’s smile suddenly dropped, his features now razor-sharp. “Cure? What’s left to cure?”

Castiel was lost for words, startled at this sudden change. “I thought—I—“

“No.” Dean shook his head. “You’re just like everyone else. Crowley, Sam—I don’t need to change. This is me.”

 _No._ Hannah gasped as the connection nearly snapped again at the white-hot burst of anger, emboldened by conviction. “Dean. This isn’t you.”

“Oh, angel.” Dean shook his head, slowly, mockingly. “It’s all me. You can’t save me, Castiel, not this time.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do. _I don’t need you._ ”

Something seemed in Castiel’s mind, in Grace, his emotions. There were sudden flashes of Dean, kneeling in the dark, hand reached out, blood bright on his face. _I need you._ Dean was so frightened, so worried, but a chord of certainty was clear in his plea. _I need you._ Dean cared about him, wanted him to stop, needed him to come back to him. _I need you._

The blade Hannah realized that was in Castiel’s grasp dropped to the ground with a clear clang.

And Hannah realized. He had chosen Dean. And Dean had chosen him.

Castiel had never forgotten about that. Castiel never wanted to.

But he had to.

“Dean—“

It was over. It was over. Hannah couldn’t even feel relief at the resigned tone, the slump in the shoulders, the dimming light of Grace.

The metallic scrape of the door didn’t even startle him. Sam came, bearing a large cardboard box, and Dean’s eyes flickered back towards him.

“Hello, Sammy,” he greeted cheerfully. “Just setting a few things straight with Cas here.”

Sam exchanged a sympathetic glance at Castiel as he filled one of the syringes, but Castiel roughly shook his head. Hannah now felt nothing but numbness, of mission, of realization, of pain.

“Let’s do this,” the younger Winchester said in reply, and plunged the needle right into his brother’s arm.

Castiel closed his eyes, and the shrill, animalistic scream followed Hannah even long after she found herself back on the bed, still holding Castiel grief-stricken face.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Acceptance

“Would you have done it?” Hannah asked.

The clerk cleared his throat. “Ma’am. How long are you staying?”

“Just one night,” Castiel said, before she could speak. He wasn’t fond of her plan to stop and rest—not that either of them truly needed  _sleep_ —but Hannah was adamant. She thought some peace would do them both some good, especially for Castiel. Even if Castiel now had Grace restored to his body, albeit stolen, the solution was but a temporary patch. And of course, no Grace could fix the stress on his body and mind. He was in no shape to travel extensively.

The man gave them both an appraising look, moving his eyes up and down her vessel’s body, wrapped in a white, terrycloth robe. Hannah frowned, silently putting a hand on Castiel’s shoulder when he began to step forward. “Room number?”

“One-oh-three. One room.” Hannah replied. They don’t truly need to budget, but Hannah was worried about taking rooms from other patrons who might come along. And besides, both of them don’t sleep, shower, or eat. It would be a waste.

“Oh, I _see_.” He leered, and Hannah disliked him immediately. He reminded her of Metatron, all _little Hannah needs to be dominated_. Just the thought of that scumbag made Hannah want to slam his face against the bars of Heaven’s prison again. Repeatedly.

“We’re brother and sister,” Hannah said, irritated, slamming the credit card down on the desk. It was from her vessel, and Hannah, for the first time, wondered if this counted as stealing. _She said yes_ , Hannah thought, and tried to swallow the uncertainty down. Did this woman truly know what she was getting into? Working through a divorce, debating with herself whether to leave the unfaithful man who was husband—she was alone, walking through the streets in furious silence when Hannah fell to Earth. Panicked and vulnerable, Hannah had reached out, begging for shelter, and the woman had responded, fiercely: _fuck it, yes._

Hannah never thought of her vessel's history, the home on the very outskirts of the city, the cat that curled on the rug, the repetitive typing on a laptop, the quiet intimacy shared before the catalyst of the downward spiral.  _Castiel's influence. Human influence._ It still took her a while to understand that was Castiel's way of complimenting her.  _Human._ To him, it didn't mean weakness. It meant resilience, something worth of celebration, but also of pain, chaos, selfishness, and greed.

 _Art, love, hope, dreams..._   

Hannah was pulled from her thought with Castiel's short "Let us pass without anymore distractions," and the clerk had the sense to hand them the key, gulping visibly at the sheer lack of patience on Castiel's face.

“Enjoy the spa session. Let us know if you need any assistance.”

* * *

It was clear Castiel didn’t approve of this method of relaxation. Hannah was so used to Castiel complimenting her on understanding human terms that she almost expected Castiel's appreciation at this non-angelic solution. But of course, he was as stubborn as a Winchester. Hannah honestly wondered if Castiel had a knack for running around and picking the worst qualities of a human to choose as his own at times. It seemed she would never quite understand it, even with the peek into Castiel's mind.

“We need to be on the road, Hannah.”

“No distractions, I’m aware.” Hannah crossed her arms and breathed in the steamy air that clung to her nostrils. It smelled fresh and cleansing. “But these events have been stressful on your mind and body, and you need some time to unwind.”

Castiel made a sharp, impatient noise in his throat, but sat where he was on the bench and began to read the diagrams on the walls that instructed one on proper breathing.

Hannah waited until Castiel seemed less stressed, before asking her question again: “Would you have done it?”

His answer was curt. “It’s over.”

“This isn’t over,” Hannah objected. “Doesn’t Dean still have the Mark? Heaven may cease in their efforts to eliminate him if this news reached them, but if he reverted...do you realize that we wouldn't be able to stop them?" She made him look her in the eye as she continued, "They stayed their hand because you led them to safety, but there's only so much they can tolerate with disobedience."

Castiel was silent.

Hannah resisted the urge to sigh.

“Castiel,” she said. “We’re friends, correct?”

Castiel looked suspicious, but answered, "Correct."

“And friends are honest with another, correct?” She waited for a nod, before saying, “What I said before is true. Your preference to die for your principles is very noble, but meaningless.”

“I don’t—“ Castiel shook his head. “Hannah, when I…declared myself as God, the Winchesters tried to stop me with every fiber of their being. Regardless of previous affections, they knew I was a danger to myself and to the world.” He sighed. “But when I came back, Dean was…Dean was relieved. I dare even say that he was glad to see me again. I thought he’d hate me. But he didn’t. What am I supposed to think?”

“We forgive a lot of things for love,” Hannah said.

Castiel looked so momentarily alarmed that Hannah began to look around the room for a security breach, but realized what his shock was about with faint amusement. “Castiel, it was rather obvious.”

Hannah let the silence drag out, closing her eyes as Castiel wrestled with his emotions, for words he could speak, but so imprecisely that he was lost.

“Yes, I would have,” he admitted. “And if Heaven wasn’t in such a state, I think—I think I wouldn’t—I couldn’t bear…”

There was clearly nothing left to say.

“Well…” Hannah drummed her fingers on the wooden bench. “Do you want to go back to Heaven?”

“What place is there for me?”

“To lead,” Hannah said, but she no longer spoke it with the same fervor.

“I think you know what your place is.” He smiled at her. “You would make a wonderful leader, Hannah. Better than I ever was.” Castiel sighed, stretching his arms above his head. “You’re lucky. To know where you belong.”

“Like you said. That takes a while to figure out, but it’s a good start.”

With that, Castiel got up with a heavy air. “We have work to do.”

Hannah nodded, and also rose. They did have work to do, and Hannah wasn't sure if she had all the answers. Castiel didn't. There were more potential problems afoot, and still old ones to be solved.

But that's what she'd figure out for herself.

* * *

 


End file.
